There's something that feels almost miraculous -- if he believed in miracles, which he doesn't, not really, but still... -- about the fact that he'd met Ned tonight, about the fact that Ned had actually liked him, about the fact that they're doing this, and about the fact that it feels better than he'd ever imagined it would. And he's had plenty of time to imagine. When you're not doing much except working and living your day to day existence, you have a lot of time to think about all the sex you're not having. It had been pretty great in his imagination, but for once, reality is better than his imagination.

When Ned catches his eyes like that, he doesn't even try to stifle an altogether too loud moan. What's the sense of enjoying himself if he can't let Ned know about it? He's still too flustered for actual speech, still fighting some sense of nervousness that Ned will, somehow, decide that his reactions aren't good enough and stop what he's doing, but the completely unabashed whimper when Ned begins to move his head faster is certainly a vote of confidence in Ned's favor.

It's difficult not to tighten his grip on Ned's hair, so he does, but just for a moment, because then, following his natural disinclination towards staying still, his hand is moving again, stroking Ned's cheek for a moment, just as reverently as the rest of his motions towards Ned have been.